Honey was surrounded by drunken idiots. A fact that did not amuse bad-boy Blake Carlisle one bit. He leaned in the doorway for a second, and his heavily muscled frame all but filled the opening as he watched the men surrounding her. The bar was bustling, the place filled wall to wall.
His dark gaze flicked from one face to the next. Later there would be a reckoning.
Honey was his. She had been from the moment she’d arrived in town six months ago and taken over the bar and grill. The sooner people around these parts worked that out, the fewer heads he’d have to break.
Blake walked into the room. Encased head to toe in black leathers, he was the stereotypical biker, right down to the long hair that curled into his neck and the tattoos on his biceps.
As he passed, conversation fell silent. A sense of wariness filled the room, the sweaty tang teasing his nose as they watched him. Watched and waited to see what he’d do next. A bad boy from the wrong side of town, it was no secret Blake had seen the inside of the sheriff’s holding cell more times than most people had hot dinners. He’d lost count of the number of fights he’d started and then finished.
He reached the bar and leaned against it to watch the fracas surrounding his Honey. Amazonian tall with a fall of honey-blonde hair, she was well named. But it wasn’t the hair that held Blake’s attention. Nor was it the stacked rack or the luscious curve of her ass, all attributes he appreciated. Hell, just thinking about those curves kept him hot and hard at nights. But they weren’t what drew him to her.